Throughout the past couple of weeks, depression seems/ed to have hit me like a freight train–leaving me totally encumbered and with a mangled mess of a mind. It still amazes me how one can simultaneously feel so chaotic and yet so still–the inward collapse obscured by outward displays of pseudo-normalcy. It’s pure listlessness; dullness–something akin to dead weight, all the while episodically overwhelmed by a roiling mass of anxiety that has no real discernible premise or function (it certainly couldn’t be anticipatory–I mean, really, what the hell is there to look forward to?).

It’s during times like these that I can’t muster anything even remotely interesting or cogent in the way of an idea. My mind seems to have drawn a permanent blank, and I find myself assuredly convinced that my brain has begun to rot. Even as I’m sitting here – trying to weave together my thoughts – I find myself biting my nails and totally spacing out. Nevertheless, I learned of one counselor who addressed some of her own issues (specifically her battle with writer’s block)by committing herself to writing for a minimum of an hour each day–regardless of how lousy it turned out (and given that she was in the process of writing one of her books, much of her content was – by her own admission – eventually heavily edited). Hey, good for her. I admire her stamina.

The point is that this particular anecdote somehow managed to cajole me–that – in spite of my rotting brain – a little bit of elbow grease might afford me the capacity to challenge my perception of imminent failure. Thus, I’m going to try implementing the same approach. It sure as hell won’t be an everyday thing straight out the gate, but I will definitively seek to move in that direction.

Depression is a thief in the night; definitely not unprecedented in the final stretches of recovery. I can see now that it won’t leave of its own volition. Someday – hopefully sooner rather than later – I’ll be able to slam the door in its face for good.

Suffice it to say, one of the greatest, most tragic realities associated with borderline personality disorder is the absence (or fragmentation) of identity. Despite what is often spoken and written about, it’s nothing like the teenage angst and frustration emanating from hormonal fluctuations and the constant “trying on” of different faces. Some people liken it to shape-shifting–the conscientiousness manipulation of others and the environment for purposes of self-advancement and satiating selfish desires. When the situations calls for agreeableness, affability, and interpersonal skill, we can certainly deliver–the ostensible sycophant eager to please and garner acceptance. On the other side of the same coin, we can appear to be superficially self-harming, suicide-threatening, and self-pitying in response to conflict, emotional upset, or simply not getting our way. The artifice of a master chameleon; the professional victim of circumstance. While I would venture to say that it’s plausible in some cases, I believe that going out on such a limb would warrant questioning the authenticity of the diagnosis. Nevertheless, as mentioned in my previous post, comorbidity in BPD can reflect an overlap of personality disorders with – shall we say – rather unattractive behavioral displays. Of course, that goes without saying that I can’t speak for everyone. In the context of this post, however, I’m granting personal transparency for the sake of dispelling untruths, as well as lending the insight requisite in better understanding the precariousness of not knowing who you are.

The “identity disturbance” issue is an enduring one born of years’-worth of necessary adaptability. It is, in essence, the product of a developing capacity to acutely test the emotional waters of one’s environment, and – beleaguered by the practice of capitulation – trying to avoid stepping on others’ toes for fear of being met with foreseeable hostility. Usually, it is a means of eluding emotional depredation in response to otherwise minor inconveniences, disagreements, and others’ warranted grievances regarding our out-of-term behavior. Certainly, this isn’t always the case, and certainly isn’t for everyone. Some have been met with much less–and, in the most unfortunate of cases, significantly worse. Inevitably, the rage within us festers and culminates into physical displays of inappropriate aggression, a proclivity for impulsiveness (alcohol and drug binges amongst other things), and the kind of desperation that begs for everything and anything to self-soothe. Needless to say, these are just a few criteria torn from the pages of the DSM, which are instrumental in “officially” cranking us out as perceptibly formidable crazies. Unlike those afflicted with true psychosis, we are merely the kind who nestle in the notoriety of wreaking havoc in mental health facilities, therapists’ offices, and society at large. However, if you know anything about depression, then you know that it’s best characterized as anger turned inward–and that borderline ought not be a one-size-fits-all wastebasket diagnosis for the lot of us who can’t better be described as something else.

Thanks to therapy and increasing resolution, it is clear to me now that my intolerance for being alone should’ve been glaringly obvious. While most children and adolescents undergo a series of developmental milestones in their quest for self-discovery, for me – as I suspect is the case for most of us who meet/met the criteria for BPD – it was so much more. Despite the friendships that I’d cultivated across time, I still felt very much alone. Pretending to be like everyone else was so painfully difficult. Any sociability on my end (beyond my close circle of friends) was nothing more than a means of concealing my insecurities and projecting outward that which I so desperately lacked. Nevertheless, upon entering high school, this slow and steady death of girlish hope for happiness “someday” gave rise to something else–something to which I couldn’t ascribe language or an explanation, but certainly felt in the heaviest, most crushing of capacities. This percolating mass of despondency was akin to terminal heartache, for which there existed no cure or even palliation. Prior to self-harm, nothing dulled the pain nor allayed the mounting shame and self-loathing that culminated over time. Being by myself in any context left me vulnerable to whatever gnawing thoughts or feelings came my way–inextricable and unforgiving. There is no more an accurate characterization of my adolescence and early adulthood than poignant self-denigration at the expense of otherwise (im)plausible equanimity–heaping upon my chest an inexplicable emotional weight as I ached for any semblance of relief. The heaviness – this unprovoked, yet agonizing heartbreak – often overwhelmed and suffocated me. Having spent one too many nights weeping by way of self-harm, I found cathartic value and consolation in crying tears of blood, and subsequently practicing “self-care” by wrapping my wrists in toilet paper – securing them with hair ties – and holding them close to my chest. Other times, I felt emptied–overtaken by undeniable and pervasive emotional desolation–likewise mitigated by the sight of blood and filling in the empty spaces so as to remind myself of my own existence.

Following years’-worth of self-harm, alcohol abuse and dependency, turbulence, toxic relationships, and disordered eating in desperate attempts to circumvent (or at least round the jagged edges) of unpleasant internal experiences, I have realized that, at the ripe age of twenty-eight, I really haven’t had an iota of a clue as to who I am. Trying on different personalities – and the inordinate amount of effort required to stay in character – has always rendered within me a sense of disillusionment. Playing pretend is incredibly physically, mentally, and emotionally taxing–and over time has engendered within me resentment for those whom I feel required to oblige. More notably, however, such blatant self-abandonment only lends sustenance to the part one’s self that’s defined by roiling self-loathing and -disparagement. A few years ago, layering on makeup, clipping hair extensions onto my scalp (BDD – short for “body dysmorphic disorder – was another lovely addition to my litany of problems), and cloaking myself in the artifice of profuse conscious-stricken-ness and agreeablenes was the norm (when I wasn’t recoiling in bed and avoiding the arduousness of daily functioning). It goes without saying that my needs remained unacknowledged and unmet as I apologized excessively for damn-near everything and anything, all the while concealing my mounting resentment and misanthropic sentiments. Having lived vicariously through the eyes of mental illness, I realize now that it was nothing short of a botched attempt at self-definition by way of resting in the familiarity of my own problems.

In sum, therapy has been a God-send. Although I’ve discussed it in previous posts, I cannot sufficiently express the importance of working through the stickiness of BPD–dismantling internalized shame and working from the ground-up in the authentic cultivation, realization, and appreciation of one’s honest, unadulterated sense of self. In some respects, it can be likened to re-parenting–creating, nurturing, and reinforcing the integrity of an attachment premised on trust and security. Understand that I’m not trying to ram it down anyone’s throat, and that I’m well aware that not everyone is ready or has mustered the courage to address the tender underbelly of self-loathing and emptiness.Sorry to say, however, there is no beating around the bush when it comes to healing from something as precarious as BPD. The only way out is through, and frankly, the pain associated with taking a good, hard look at one’s situation is so incredibly worth it. In the grand scheme of things, it becomes no more or less a mildly uncomfortable, yet hugely imperative milestone in mastering the balancing act of one’s perceptions and feelings as they relate to his or her self-concept–beginning from its infancy to its full maturation and raw beauty.

Being well-versed in most things borderline, one thing that has increasingly rubbed me the wrong way is the idea that borderlines lack a fundamental sense of self-sovereignty (i.e., the “inability” to put on the breaks with respect to our behavior). Don’t confuse this for a contention that borderlines don’t face overwhelming challenges as they pertain to thinking and feeling (and thus should be met with vitriol in the wake of conflict or minor offenses)–but note that forever granting impunity in the absence of correction and boundaries isn’t conducive to our recovery. As I’ve mentioned in a previous post, I do feel that borderlines are unfairly stigmatized and too often laughably pigeonholed into the “narcissistic” and “sociopathic” categories–either out of naivete or, as is often the case, plain ignorance as a result of reading pop psychology articles in response to having dealt with difficult loves ones or associates. To some, “borderline” and “narcissism” are inextricable–but in my opinion, this couldn’t be farther from the truth. Nevertheless, I think that it goes without saying that simply because each of these falls into the Cluster B-“dramatic personality-types” doesn’t at all contend that they present the same symptomatic expressions or derivations (however, in some cases, they give the appearance of overlap–which can be the case in extreme cases). That being said, there is a plethora of research to suggest that those who meet criteria for borderline personality disorder do in fact reflect certain brain activity that is incongruous with those who do not (as an example, research concerning the amygdalae (plural for “amygdala”–the part of the brain responsible for regulating fear and aggression) of borderline subjects is noticeably smaller – and thus wildly more active – than those of their non-borderline counterparts).

As someone who has been diagnosed as having borderline personality disorder, it is my opinion that the suggestion that borderline’s aren’t capable of accountability is a perilous one. This sort of circular reasoning only lends credence to the “disease” model of BPD, and therefore doesn’t extend any modicum of hope for successful recuperation. To require or ask that we be held accountable assumes that each of us has the capacity for accountability–and thus serves as an indication as to the perception of our capabilities and potential for outgrowth of our own pathology. As previously noted, accountability is not to be confused with punishment or shame; it’s merely holding up the proverbial mirror so that we can better recognize the ways in which our behavior brings to life our greatest of fears. In truth, it’s one of the best ways in which loved ones can help those of us suffering (or those of us who have suffered) from BPD, because it essentially reassures us that – contrary to what is so often felt – the problem doesn’t actually lie within the essence of who we are, but in fact resides in the perniciousness of our behavior. It isn’t that we, ourselves, are problematic or repelling–but rather, the effects of the subconscious’s compulsory need for chaos and displacement–manifesting a self-fulfilling prophecy, and ultimately, aiding in the perpetuation of a narrative defined by perceived defectiveness. Should we come to understand this, we – in due time – can develop the sense of awareness requisite for delineation between the two, and – perhaps with the added support of therapy – create a starting point at which we can commit to and indulge in self-betterment.

Of course, I think that it’s worth noting that unconditional love is an integral part of our personal evolution–and that unconditional love and accountability are incontestably inextricable. Indeed, unconditional love ought be unconditional (there are non-negotiables for some, but with the exception of outright betrayal or murder, I personally don’t see how the rest can – within the context of unconditional love – involve any consequential contingencies). Henceforth, I do believe that it’s in our best interest to be reminded of the fact that it’s entirely possible to love someone while simultaneously disliking some of their behavior. It’s not a matter of love-or-hate; black-or-white. Unconditional love can be expressed without granting license for abuse and mistreatment (for whatever it’s worth, our intention isn’t to abuse anyone–but rather, to subconsciously – even reflexively – push others away in a desperate attempt to elude the crippling pain of being left). Without accountability, we do not get better–and in essence, failure or refusal to accept responsibility nearly pars with fating those we love to suffer in a capacity that’s similar to that which aided in the making of our own affliction. In retrospection (to a few years ago–and even a few days ago (even though my life has improved substantially, I still have my off-days)), I understand wholeheartedly that we shouldn’t conduct ourselves in thoughtless fashion. As is true for borderlines and non-borderlines alike, each of us yearns for unconditional love–however, as I’ve come to acknowledge and appreciate by virtue of the therapeutic process, unconditional love – intertwined with compassion, patience, and understanding – ought not be beholden to loosely-tied boundaries that are easily trampled over. Our loved ones should, without a semblance of equivocation or impossible capitulation, respect and validate our feelings and the experiences by virtue of which they come to pass. Believe me when I say that it hasn’t been easy – and occasionally still feels impossible – to regulate my feelings and behavior. Needless to say, having been in therapy for approximately three years, I think that it’s safe to say that kind of investment would be fruitless if I were still flying off the handle at any perceived slight or innocuous gesture. As of now, I want and need patience, equanimity, and support (both from others and myself) in aiding in my personal development and emotional maturation–as well as personal responsibility in the wake of evolving esteem and personal standards. I’m ever so slowly (yet assuredly) learning to love and respect myself enough to gently demand of myself what I wish so desperately that I’d been given.

It’s been some time since I’ve written here. In any case, in looking over excerpts from some of the stuff I’ve written over the past several months, I came across this entry. Granted, it’s relatively short and was written last year, but nevertheless, you’re getting it straight from the horse’s mouth.

“27 July 2017

It’s laughable to think that people with my kind of problem are so often maligned by the rest of society. If you consider the fact that we all have a little “borderline” in us, it isn’t that difficult to understand. Nevertheless, I’ve shaken off the idea that I am borderline–I believe that these kinds of labels should only serve to create a comprehensible and concise understanding of mental health issues that can’t otherwise be attributed to something like schizophrenia or clinical depression. I don’t think that it’s helpful in the way of helping someone who already believes that they’re defective to define them by their affliction. In any case, I just think that it’s interesting to know that so many people believe that those with borderline personality disorder are “bad” or “manipulative.” For whatever it’s worth, I can attest to the fact that many of us have or do/have said or say things unthinkingly, and that are callous, insensitive, destructive, and often selfish–and I absolutely believe that the onus is on us to take responsibility, accept the consequences of our misgivings, and in many cases make amends. All of this being said, I can also just as vehemently attest to what it feels like to be so desperately in need of something that you’re willing to do almost anything to ameliorate the pain. Not to be confused with an excuse for bad behavior, it’s important to know that people with borderline personality are not all “bad” people. Even considering the stage of recovery that I’m currently in, I continue to struggle so painfully with the misbelief that the very core of who I am is contemptible. I can’t even begin to articulate in words how disconcerting it is to feel that the very fiber of your being is comprised of ugliness; a painstakingly abhorrent personality and unprincipled character.”

It’s inconclusive, but that’s how BPD is. There isn’t a line drawn in the sand delineating a completed state of recovery from chaos. It simply doesn’t exist. As said, we all have a little borderline in us. Truth be told, most healthy people experience a plethora of feelings and experiences that could at one point or another – as a collective or as individual expressions of behavior, thought, or feeling – qualify anyone as being “mentally ill.” It’s all a work in progress, as are most things in life. It’s not a “disease”, nor is it a character flaw. These types of semantics and pejoratives do nothing in the way of inspiring the self-efficacy requisite for taking the necessary steps to address the underlying issues. Also, accepting this kind of perspective does absolutely nothing to palliate one’s fears and sense of helplessness. Thankfully, my own therapist was, from the beginning, emphatic about not unnecessarily slapping labels onto people to describe the challenges that inevitably follow many of life’s difficulties.

If I’m being honest, there’s a part of me that’s trepidatious about being transparent here. I have no qualms about speaking on my issues in jest–cloaking them in humor and making other people find comedic value in my misery. You wouldn’t know exactly what I’m talking unless you happen to know me within the context of my personal life. Sometimes I really do find my life to be funny, and laughing is the only mechanism for blowing off steam that has any real cathartic value. The frustration culminates into something that’s bigger than me–something that’s so disconcerting and so uncomfortable that I can’t dismiss it in lieu of pretending to be like everyone else. Honestly, I have no gripes about being different–and in fact, I find some semblance of solace in being a little left of center. I’m funny and witty, and people seem to enjoy my company. Sadly, what most people don’t seem to understand or can’t conceptualize is that those of us who are afflicted with depression – either longstanding or episodic – are often highly-skilled at playing pretend. In trying to explain it, I often tell those close to me that, when a situation calls for being on one’s best behavior, I feel as though I’m wearing a costume. Without coming across as braggadocios, I have to say that I’m often told how engaging and affable I am–and for the sake of being polite, I thank them for the compliment, but I know entirely too well that these kinds of accolades are best taken with a grain of salt. They don’t know how estranged I feel from the bulk of society, and how inexplicable my “problems” are (I write that in quotation marks because I harbor a tremendous measure of guilt for having the temerity to complain). I wish that these things didn’t happen – that these feelings didn’t arise – but they seem to fester and present without warning. While I’m not entirely sure how much I buy into the medical community’s conceptualization of depression (that which can only be adequately addressed with psychotropic medications), I speak from experience when I say that it’s insidious and unforgiving. For clarification purposes, I’m not saying that there isn’t – or that I don’t believe that there exists – a medical model/biochemical underpinnings that are in part responsible for depression–but I am incredulous as to the seriousness and nobility with which they seek to identify causal factors and treat/manage it. Truthfully, I think that most people can agree that not enough time, energy, and/or resources are allocated to addressing mental and emotional health difficulties [a different discussion for a different day/night, obviously]. The point is that depression – despite the seemingly innumerable explanations as to its origins – is definitely less than amusing. It’s not fun, and it certainly isn’t a choice. When it strikes hard, it’s usually characterized by either transient or enduring periods of feeling “off” – rendering within me a sense of detachment, emptiness, and apathy – and acute bouts of overwhelming despair and hopelessness. To say that I feel helpless is a grave understatement–however, provided my two and a half-years’ worth of therapy, I’ve come to accept it for what it is, and understand that it will inevitably pass. That being said, I’m troubled by the reality that, despite the natural occurrence of time, and the fact that I’m – for all intents and purposes – a full-fledged “adult”, I still find myself feeling as dejected and impassioned as I did during my adolescence. To be fair, though, I can’t say that I absolutely hate or resent everything associated with this part of myself–and to be honest, many of my successes and more interesting parts of my personality can be attributed to it. More than anything, really, I simply wish that the worst of it wasn’t so uncomfortable and distressing. From the point at which I began writing this until now, I feel as though I’ve crawled out of my depressive cave ever so slightly–having gone from feeling as though the life had been sucked right out of me, to feeling more centered. For the sake of keeping ailing thoughts at bay, I’m going to leave it here. More on this topic at a later date.

Prompted by an episodic relapse into self-harm at eighteen, I sat at my old desktop and began writing. Of course, this was before the you-know-what hit the fan (not sure how I feel about being profane here)–before the losses, reclamations, and healing. It’s funny how some things change and others stay the same. Oh how life teaches you things about yourself.

On a different note, I really have to chuckle at how still-in-it’s-infancy my writing was.

Here’s to self-improvement.

A Description of the Unspoken

With every event, every negative experience in my life, I wish for it to manifest itself into something greater—a story to tell, a constructive learning experience, everything and anything other than what it truly is or has already been.

This is one of many.

I’m heading nowhere, inundated with convoluted and disturbing thoughts of destruction. I’m trying to make sense of what would strike anyone of any sort of normalcy as something trivial and fruitless. I’m imagining this in sheer retrospection to only a few moments past.

Tears swell in my eyes, and I forcefully bite my lower lip and fight them back. I can’t cry. I won’t cry. I won’t allow you to exploit my vulnerability—I refuse. No, not again; not this time.

Strength, although fleeting and hollow in its entirety, is my only option at this point. “Empty actions, empty thoughts; if you refuse to acknowledge what is, then it never has been and never will be”, I condition myself to believe, obviously on a more commonsensical level. I’m trying effortlessly to demonstrate even the slightest measure of strength, simply for the sheer sake of security and fortification against you and your vile, malevolent dictations.

My thoughts are clearer now, and I remember.

I’m sitting on the edge of my bed, unaccompanied, and basking in my own, self-degenerative limelight; to eventually be swallowed whole by this menacing, distorted cloud of darkness. You’ve succeeded in deeming me insignificant, and now my physical solitude and emotional annulment compliment each other perfectly. I feel lifeless, pathetic, and fragile; and more within, I feel nothing. Nothing at all.

Nothingness is treacherous, for it reminds me of an ailing past, full of nothing, nothing other than voluntary starvation and the skin’s startling affair with razor blades and blood loss.

The incessant nothingness finally abates, and I’m overwhelmed with sadness—the same sadness I’d rejected and disregarded numerous times before. I shriek hysterically, and tightly lock my right fist, taking a swing at the soft tissues of my abdominal area. I do this repetitively over and over again, and yet, for whatever reason, there’s no release, and I’m unable to evade the burdens of the anticipated shame, and unremitting desire that’s associated with the likes of self-destruction.

I examine the scars running both vertically and horizontally across the skin of my upper-thighs; a web of pink and white keloided lines, intersecting in some areas and creating parallel lines in others, reflecting what I‘d believed to be a superficially immaculate account of self-mutilation. The patches of scars are purely battle wounds of precedent afflictions, and although masked from the world, somewhere in the depths of my mind, I realized that I’d worn them proudly.

I hold my breath. I’m still imagining this. I tell myself this isn’t real. None of it. Gripping a pair of scissors, these reproachful thoughts coursing through my mind are consuming me, as the dark cloud drifts overhead:

Fat.

Ugly.

Repulsive.

Pathetic.

Worthless.

Unloved.

I tell myself these things, and that’s precisely when the dissociation emerges, distinguishing and defining the blurred edges of this grim, extraordinarily surreal feeling. It isn’t me anymore; it’s you, the decipherable voice of my past, the self in my head relentlessly scrutinizing my every move, my every bite of food, my every dazzling and inexcusable moment, my everything. Everything I am.

My head and my heart linger in two separate places, and I realize that I’m deteriorating from within. I can literally feel myself psychosomatically falling apart as you tear me to shreds.

And this is when the scissors meet the skin. The jagged edge of the blade tears open the skin of my calf. This oh-so familiar and incredible release, this inexpressible psychological liberation bursts forth, pouring into and over the cavities where completion once stood in existence, filling in the empty spaces, and I’m free at last.

The blood wells at the serration of the skin; my heart and my head are steadily unified, and for a very brief moment, I’m okay. Calm, collected, and momentarily content.

I don’t tend to the wounds, not necessarily because I’ve forgotten or intend to do it later, but purely because they’re small, perfect, and divine. With every morsel of food that passes the lips, perfection is destroyed. Shattered. Impossible. Inconceivable. I can no longer grapple with the plights of self-starvation, but these, these cuts, they’re mine. I now remember that having the ability to alleviate the perplexities of depression is the closest thing to powerful I’ve ever felt. Drawing sadness upon the skin, sketching it with sharp metal, and turning an incommunicable affliction into something both tangible and evident—that’s control. I accredit myself for this perfection; it’s something that’s mine, and nobody else’s.

The scissors remain at my side as I carefully examine the small beads of blood enlarge and coalesce, forming a single, glowing crimson-colored bubble. This act of self-mutilation disguises itself as an unusual, yet comforting form of satisfying indulgence. Nobody can take this away.

Of course, none of this is real. I remind myself of this as I roll down my legging, realizing that you’re gone.

Finally, the voice leaves me at peace. In pieces.

I suddenly stand, my legs easily give way and I fall to my knees. I’m looking up. Looking at nothing, and yet, searching for something. It strays far beyond the help of any therapist, and even further from the parameters of any psychiatric infirmary. I’ve been there, I know.

It’s not about mom or dad. It has no relevance to the likes of another, nor my childhood; I grow wearisome from talking about it, repeating myself over and over again, relentlessly trying to make sense of the senseless, and ultimately going nowhere.

Something is not sustenance, material affluence, or physical precision; it’s derivation beyond the sharpened edge of a razorblade, and deeper than the skin that it severs.

It’s not self-centered, attention-seeking, disgusting, or crazy.

It’s more about wanting to feel loved than anything else, about wanting to elude the hindrance of numbness, to maintain the connectivity between your heart and head, and more than anything, to feel. To feel happy, to feel contented, to feel loved, to feel connected, and to feel alive.

Of course, this is insignificant to me. The familiarities with self-realization and epiphanies of sudden understanding are poured out once again, leaving me dry, desolate, and in need of the things that I’ve mentioned. And again, I tell myself this isn’t real. None of it.

I look down, forgetting about the cuts, the scissors, and the feelings that rendered a mutual need for them both.

I’ll recollect myself and execute another day’s worth of this. Striving for supposed perfection, the kind that can’t be defined in the countless ways that I’ve tried to make it so. My life is still in discord. The line shines through and swiftly collapses, returning to darkness, and in spite of everything, I’m still alive.

I awaken, and I’m still alive.

None of this was real—none of it.

It was a mere transitory moment in time during which my life stood still.

It would suffice to say that writing has always been a passion of mine–a fulfilling practice with meaningful and cathartic value. Until things became so difficult, it was something that I did regularly across a variety of contexts. For whatever it’s worth, I’m picking up where I left off. As a first post, there isn’t much to say in the way of specific or interesting content. For the time being, I’m banking on time and re-familiarization to get my gears going.